


Around And Around We Go

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Altered States, Disassociation, Drug Use, Historical, Hurt Crowley, Kink Meme, M/M, Opium, Pining, Rape, Somnophilia, Unreliable Narrator, opium den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: After his fight with Aziraphale, Crowley discovers London's opium dens. But his experiences while under the influence are not always pleasant.
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 228
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Around And Around We Go

**Author's Note:**

> This contains explicit rape while under the influence of drugs, and also suggestions of victim blaming.

The argument wasn't Crowley's fault.

He only meant to protect himself, to protect them both if necessary. Outside of the Arrangement, he's never asked Aziraphale for anything, he's never pushed him to do anything he was uncomfortable with. But the very first time Crowley asks him for something, something important, the angel doesn't even let him explain why, he doesn't _listen_. He simply assumes, and accuses, and then denies him, without even considering that Crowley might have a perfectly good reason for his request.

_Of course_ Crowley has no one else to fraternise with, there's no one else's company he desires more than Aziraphale's. But he can't bring himself to slink back to the angel's bookshop and admit as much, because he's certain that Aziraphale will be waiting for him there, expecting an apology as well, which he knows Crowley cannot give him. Especially not when Crowley is the one who's been wronged, the one who deserves to be heard, the one who's been painted the villain, assumed the wicked demon, as always, _as fucking always_. 

He's sick of it, and he will not bend this time. 

Instead he seethes his way through London, makes himself known everywhere Aziraphale is not. His sour mood turns more than one temptation ugly, and he hates himself a little more. 

Crowley finally finds something of an escape, in the opium dens tucked into London's dark little heart, in cellars carved out with smoke and the right amount of coin, or folded paper notes (which he still finds ridiculous). There's something reckless about the habit that he appreciates. He enjoys the clandestine ceremony of it all, and the sheer, naked sloth. He quickly becomes adept at draping himself across a sofa, in a dimly-lit, curtained-off room, and breaking the small, waxy, brown bricks into the end of a long pipe, then snapping it alight with a flare of power when the silent host leaves.

The opium itself is the real reason he comes though. Demons couldn't have invented opium if they'd had until the end of the universe. Only humans were this mad and this clever. Always riding the edge of their own destruction.

Crowley tosses his glasses on the table, leaves them with his pocket watch and cigarette case. His snake-handled cane he tips against the arm of the sofa. The one curious thing he's discovered, is that the opium flares his eyes open all the way, makes his pupils almost round. In the dim light their unnatural yellow could be green, or a very pale brown. For the first time in almost six thousand years he could be mistaken for one of them. Granted, the smoke makes them itch and sting abominably, but blinking has never come naturally to him, so he trains himself not to care. The warm smoke gives his heat vision a pleasant, hazy quality, as if the whole world is twisting and melting. 

The line between wake and sleep thins, and then smears away. Crowley has had a number of vivid, impossible opium dreams, dreams that seem to go on forever, only for him to open his eyes and realise only minutes have passed. Or he can spend an entire day considering the pattern on the wallpaper, feeling his skin shift pleasantly inside his clothes. Or perhaps it's his occult self shifting pleasantly inside his skin, he can never quite tell.

Crowley dreams of flying. He dreams of swimming in the depths of space. He dreams of slithering over and around and through himself, an ouroboros that never ends. He dreams of unfolding like perfect origami, like he's forgotten how to hold his shape, exposing impossible geometries beneath. He dreams that he's a mass of writhing snakes that circle the world. He dreams of Aziraphale, always of Aziraphale, the flaring brightness of him, warm and heavy, and threaded with exquisite lust that leaves him making wet, desperate noises into the cushions, writhing and shuddering at the touch of his own hand.

Or maybe he doesn't dream any of it, maybe he just sees it all through the smoke, in the shadows that the lamps throw on the wall. 

Sometimes Crowley is just sharply present for everything, where the seconds crawl past like hours, and the hours flow like seconds. He's never experienced his perception of time narrow and swell this way before. He hadn't thought it was possible outside of dreams. He likes the way the curtains move in slow motion, he likes the way the air feels as it rushes quicksilver-fast across his skin. He thinks the insects would all land and crawl on him, if he let his body be truly still, if he let all functions stop. But the smoke makes it impossible, his chest is always expanding, heart always pumping, insides fluttering and twitching in confused bliss. Always waiting for the next sensation, the next distraction, the next _moment_.

Crowley could waste years, and thousands of pounds, lying in this room.

Maybe he has done already?

The next time he's aware of anything, it's because his body is shifting on the sofa. It's a soft, rhythmic motion, akin to being buffeted by waves, and it tangles up in the waves he's already riding, until he feels floaty and unmoored. He's adrift on a vast ocean, even the scratch of his nails against the cushions feels far away. He can't tell if he's awake or asleep. He thinks he should probably open his eyes and check. 

When he does so, an uncertain length of time later, he finds the room darker than he remembers, the heavy curtains now pulled fully closed. 

Crowley's trousers and underwear have been removed, his shirt and jacket unbuttoned and pushed open. He can see the long stretch of his own naked body, dimly lit and jolting between slow, heavy blinks. 

His legs are open. He can see the line of his lightly-haired thigh, and the rounded curves of his knees, where they're lifted and spread wide apart. He can feel the tickle of cool air on his naked skin, a shifting rush-rush of fabric, strange hands are gripping at the back of his leg, and folded in warm points of contact at his hip. There's a large, heavy shape over him, it's moving in the same rhythm, moving with him, pressed in tight - sweat and skin, and a deep, spearing push that he feels all the way through him. 

Someone is inside him. He can feel the barely-slick, rough movement of it, the tight, aching stretch of his arsehole around a stranger's cock.

Crowley makes a noise - a shocked sort of inhale, dry and cracked - smoke fills his lungs, expands, stretches him outwards until his skin tingles. 

Thumbs press into the blades of his hips, and it's a pressure that blooms and blooms, expands down his thighs and up into his chest. It's a spreading wave of pleasure that tricks his nerves into thinking he's melting, that he's coming apart, energies splitting and streaming from him, as he uncoils the writhing snakes inside to expose his vulnerable core. It reminds him so much of the way it had felt, long ago, to open for someone else. 

The way it might feel to open for Aziraphale.

He indulges in the euphoria of it for what feels like an endless stretch of time, but might only be seconds.

The shape above him leans forward, all weight and pressure that slowly crushes the air out of him in a moaning sigh. The stranger is moving one of Crowley's limp thighs up against the back of the sofa, pressing it hard into the cushions, gaining more room for himself. It makes the greedy thrusts into his body more immediate, more urgent, the piercing shoves are deeper, and harder, all glittering sharp edges.

The stranger is talking, words all running together in a way that makes them useless. Crowley has learned so many languages, and he can't quite remember which one these belong to. He finds he doesn't much care, they're not important.

He's enjoying it, he must be, he can feel the way his stiff cock shifts and spits and smears desire across the skin of his stomach. The motion, the bruising stretch, the harsh breathing from above, and his own sluggish, floaty pleasure, tangle together into something strangely liquid. He's never had sex like this before, never been so open, or so raw, the air around him pressing down on him like a lover. He's just a long stretch of sensation, body sliding and curling as if he's slipped into snake form without meaning to, a thing to be used, a temptation left to be taken, helpless to resist it. It all feels like pleasure, every rough, grinding thrust, every grip of fingers on his hips, or thighs. Crowley is a bottomless well of power, vast and untouchable, and this human is small and meaningless, his desperate, forbidden lust is _nothing_. 

He didn't know being defiled could feel like this. Maybe this is the way it feels for other demons. Maybe this is how it's supposed to feel all the time. Perhaps Crowley has been broken all along.

He can hear the obscene smack of skin on skin, it sounds as if it's coming from far away but he can feel it, he can feel it shake his body. His legs jerk and sway, as the stranger's cock spears him open and then almost slips free, repeats, over and over. 

Crowley really should miracle himself sober, he shouldn't allow this - shouldn't allow this invasion of his corporation, this brutish, unwanted violation. He doesn't want this. He deserves better than this - doesn't he? Doesn't he deserve better?

But it feels a lot like a dream, a hazy, opium dream. His limbs are feather-light, utterly weightless, free to be twisted and bent and spread to anyone's whims. He's warm under the skin, thick and delicious and filled with sweet, expanding smoke. Sex has never felt this immediate for him, this real, all heat and skin, and frayed edges that throb, and twist on every breath. Crowley's never been touched before, when he's been high, never had someone stroking and grasping his skin when he can feel this much. But now he doesn't want it to end. He's never felt this good, never felt so much like he's actually inside his corporation, pressed tight up against the inside, straining at the skin. Threatening to spill out, to flow across the room -

The lamps above him are briefly obscured by the stranger bending over him, he registers only shoulders, a white shirt and sleek, dark hair. Crowley's seen so many faces, almost six thousand years of faces. He doesn't feel the need to remember one more. But he thinks this man was always going to be Hell's, this man who would strip him while he slept, who would drag his legs open and violate his body, lodge himself where Crowley never gave him permission to be, before he even woke. It's an absent sort of thought, as pleasure rolls slowly over and through him, as he's fucked roughly into the soft cushions. A man like this, he belongs here with Crowley. Crowley is a beacon of sin. A thing that belongs in Hell, that was made to drag people there. This is what he's for, this is what he's supposed to do.

Fraternising. That's what Aziraphale accused him of. This is to be expected, isn't it?

_"How is a man supposed to resist you? Laid out like you're a gift, like you're just waiting for someone to claim you."_

His mouth is touched, crushed, kissed wetly, then invaded by a slick, probing tongue.

Everything tastes sweet. Everything tastes of angels.

The argument was his fault, it was his fault all along. It must have been. 

Hot hands slide on Crowley's chest, his waist, his lewdly spread thighs, thumbs pull his buttocks open to expose his stretched hole - rubbing where that thick, unknown cock is moving rapidly in him now. The thumbs press in against that rhythm, sharp little points of sensation. He feels as if his whole body is ringing, ripples of him surging outwards. The air still tastes like ozone and sugar.

_"You love this don't you? I've seen the way you look at me when you come here, the way you look through me, like I was nothing. But look at you now, opening like a whore for me. You'd let anyone have you like this, wouldn't you?"_

Humans are predictable, they never change, the same sins, over and over, the same excuses, the same justifications. Aziraphale would be more creative in his desire. Aziraphale would force Crowley to be worthy of him. He would scour him clean. Burn him with holy fire until he no longer tasted of Hell. There would be so many beautiful words from the angel. He would lay words against Crowley's skin until they came alive. He would speak words into life, until Crowley could taste them. He would split open for Crowley, so he could flow into him, could taste the colours inside him. They would melt together, skin peeling away to reveal their essences underneath, Aziraphale's bright and cold and beautiful, wheels within wheels. Crowley's a seething mass of snakes and fire and void space. They would join. They would spill into each other. Become one thing. Something beyond sensation, something vast and unnameable -

His thoughts scatter when his hair is gripped and tugged. A riot of sparking, sudden pleasure that leaves him moaning. 

There are teeth at his throat, a tongue against the long line of it, too human to be Aziraphale. Crowley knows, he _knows_ , of course he does, that this isn't some hazy, opium dream. It's a human, a frail, brief, greedy human, finding his pleasure in Crowley's limp, disobedient body. Using Crowley without his permission. But it feels - it feels - he feels _so much_ , and he can't bring himself to make it stop.

He doesn't make it stop.

Does this count as fraternising? This moving shape in the dark, grunting pleasure and gripping him tightly enough for it to stab pleasantly through him. Because Crowley hadn't meant what he said. He hadn't meant to suggest that there would ever be anyone else for him. But it must count, or why would this be happening?

There are fingers pressing inside him too now, fingers and cock, pulling him open, tugging at him, shards of pleasure-pain, coiling tight. He feels his own cock throb in sympathy, in desperation. He can hear the harsh huff-huff of every exhale, can feel the flares of lust, tangling in his own senses, confused and directionless. The eager groans from above brush hotly against his face, tasting of port and tobacco and the sweetness of the air itself.

_"You take it so well. You're going to feel me after this. You're going to know that I had you while you were senseless. You'll be the one who feels shame, not me."_

Crowley is anything but senseless. He has thousands of senses. He didn't know that was even possible in a human body. The world has layers he's never seen outside of his true form, layers and pockets and slivers of unreality, and they throb and twist and stroke at his curled essence, as if to tempt him into sliding out of his corporation, teasing out their secret, hidden places.

The opium lets Crowley see colours again, so many colours, colours that don't exist, colours he hasn't seen since they blinded his first eyes, colours he hasn't seen since he was angel. Colours that they took from him, that they stole from him. He's never sure if they're real, if they're a product of his vast occult mind twisted into tangles and torn into streams by the opium haze, or if it's just a memory of colour brought back to life.

He finds he doesn't much care.

It's exquisite, it's perfect.

His orgasm is sudden and overwhelming, it rolls and shudders its way through him, unravelling his senses and splitting him open, sensation rushing in and then pouring out. His cock jerks and spills untouched, wet lines and streaks against his skin, as his body twitches helplessly, arse clenching down tight on the stranger's cock. He's moaning, low and desperate, certain that it's going to go on forever, certain that he's stopped time just to feel it. This hazy, warm space where he's spread, and pinned, and filled. It's a sharp, splintered sort of ecstasy that goes on, and on. The greedy, punching thrusts between his legs have stopped, and he's left floating in a weightless arc of bliss, while the stranger groans above him, coming in hot pulses inside him, grinding his weak, human essence as deep as it will go.

Asleep and awake melt together for a while.

The stranger pulls out of him, but they don't move away. Instead they stay between Crowley's thighs, kiss his panting mouth, his sweat-damp throat. There's a wet drag of tongue, and harsh bites of teeth, rough fingers slip back into him, pushing the thick spill of semen leaking from him back inside. 

Crowley's distant need to hiss, and claw, and scratch at him for the fucking audacity, wars with the languid, bright-edged pleasure he's currently experiencing. The way it feels like the stranger is coring him sweetly open, stroking his insides until they quiver and hum for him.

After all, he's only a human. A human can't hurt him. Not really.

_"Look at the mess I've left of you. What a picture you make, your bruised hole so eager to keep me."_

Three fingers sink deep and hard into the sloppy mess of his anus, jabbing carelessly and waking soft aches of delicious hurt. Crowley can hear it now, it sounds fleshy, wet and obscene, and there's a soreness drifting just on the edge of his awareness, almost close enough to reach. Which suggests that at some point soon he will come down, he'll be forced to face the real world again.

He's kissed again, fingers touch his jaw, pulling his mouth open, he feels the wet thrust of a tongue - then a hissing fall of words against his cheek.

_"I should leave you like this, where anyone could see you. Maybe they'll find you too tempting to resist as well. How many men do you think could have their way with you, how many could spend themselves inside you, before you find your way free of the opium?"_

The fingers push into Crowley's body, one last time, and then slip free, leaving only an ache and emptiness. His legs are left spread open, the stranger's wet, human essence dripping from him, and cooling on his skin. He feels hollowed-out, and the impossible colours are slowly fading, the warmth tugging itself away from him. Coming down is always the worst part, it leaves him scratching and clawing, _unwilling_. His corporation was never designed for this, the pieces of him inside and outside not made to be altered, to be confused, to become something else. They were never made to be inside bodies. They were meant to be free.

He's kissed again, more roughly this time, fingers grip tight in his hair, pull his head back, and there are harsh breaths against his throat, hands that slide across the bare skin of his chest, before slipping away.

His glasses are carefully replaced, leaving the room dark, and cold, and empty.


End file.
